Precious Things
by Laura Jeanne
Summary: Before Alistair was a templar or a Grey Warden, he was a young stableboy who dared to befriend a witch of the Wilds. He never dreamed he'd meet Morrigan again— until the Blight brings them together as allies behind an enigmatic Warden recruit. With the weight of Alistair's heritage looming over them, what will become of the bond they once shared? (Sequel to Silver and Gold)
1. Chapter 1

There were intruders in the Wilds.

They had emerged from the army encampment to the north. Weaving through the cold and murky marsh, their heavy footsteps were all too obvious. The clattering of their armor sent flocks of birds flying as they passed; it roused the wolves from their slumber.

It raised Morrigan's attention as she stalked between the trees.

A strange party, these four. All human, yet all quite distinct. Each looked off in a different direction, as though they came with a different purpose. But the three men followed the lone woman without question. They never strayed from her path.

At a glance, she appeared to be a noblewoman followed by her guardsmen. She was indeed noble; if her gleaming armor and sword didn't give it away, then her face must. The large, balding man behind her certainly looked the part of a guard. But her other companions confused the picture: there was a shifty, roguish type who constantly looked over his shoulder, and a young warrior who wore the blues of a Grey Warden.

Warden recruits, then? Perhaps, although it was strange that the one Warden among them did not lead. Was he an escort, sent to defend the others against the darkspawn while they carried out their unknown task? They all looked to be capable fighters, some moreso than others. But the Wardens could sense the taint from afar.

Morrigan watched them curiously as they made their journey. There was no need to hide, for the group was absorbed in its mission. She simply hung back as they moved forward. She watched from between the mossy stone columns of the ancient ruins, and they hacked their way through the blighted creatures, unaware of what wild powers surrounded them.

It was clear they had not known one another long. They did not dance the dance of an experienced group of fighters. The noblewoman seemed one who had trained much, but never faced a true opponent; she was stiff, choreographed. The rogue would break away from the group to chase down some genlock archer, leaving the others with an open flank. The large warrior hesitated and cowered before the beasts. At least the young Warden killed the darkspawn with little trouble. Somehow, they pressed on. They knelt by the bodies of the fallen creatures and gathered their blood in little vials.

A few times they stopped, to pluck an odd flower or to poke at a dead body in the swamp, but they soon pressed onward. They were moving to the southeast. Morrigan quickened her pace. Her suspicions were growing as they neared the location of the Grey Wardens' cache.

She watched from her perch atop the crumbling rampart. The intruders were drawing closer. Morrigan could see them clearly now— they were weary, spattered with darkspawn blood as well as their own. The young woman's face was twisted in a sneer as she approached the remains of the old chest.

"Is this supposed to be it?" the noblewoman said, toeing the splintered box with a silver-clad boot. Her upper lip curled back.

"I think it is," said the golden-haired Warden, stepping up beside her. He frowned at the ruined chest, at the moss that grew over its hinges. "But… something doesn't seem right. Do you hear something?"

A pebble skittered down the stone wall from where Morrigan sat. The four turned their heads in different directions, searching cluelessly for the sound; the large warrior jumped in his armor.

Morrigan's teeth clenched. Her fingers twisted around the neck of her staff.

_Go. Just… go._

In a single swift motion, she pushed herself up from her perch. Her approach had not gone exactly as planned, but she did not forget the words she had rehearsed in her mind.

"Well, well," Morrigan lilted as she descended the stone walkway. "What have we here?"

A typical group of sheltered common-folk, if the looks on their faces were any indication. The noblewoman's eyes went wide— so green, they were— and then narrowed in suspicion. The men stood with their jaws hanging open to varying degrees. The Warden stood rooted in place, while the other two backed away.

"Are you a vulture, I wonder?" Morrigan dragged the end of her staff against the stone as she walked. It made a faint rasping sound behind her words. "A scavenger poking amidst a corpse whose bones were long since cleaned?"

Placing her hand on the hilt of her sword, the noblewoman cut a line through the rest of her party. She matched Morrigan's pace, meeting her as she rounded the stone pillar at the base of the walkway.

"Or merely an intruder," Morrigan continued, "come into these darkspawn-filled Wilds of mine in search of easy prey?"

She stamped her staff against the dirt and leaned upon it. Her eyes flicked between the humans' faces. All were painted with fear, mistrust, hostility— save for the Warden, who had a sort of wonder upon him.

Morrigan turned back to their apparent leader. "What say you, hmm?" she challenged. "Scavenger or intruder?"

She raised her eyebrows, but the noblewoman's face did not budge. Nor did her grip on her sword loosen. "Who are you supposed to be?"

Her phrasing took Morrigan off guard. "You ask who I am _supposed_ to be?" she chuckled, and tossed a lock of hair from her eyes. Circling around the group, she watched their eyes follow. "No, I can only tell you who I am. But first, I would know who you are."

"I am Emera Cousland of Highever," the woman declared. It was a practiced, haughty greeting, one she had surely repeated many times.

"Such a lengthy name." Morrigan clicked her tongue. "No doubt it is a lofty one in some other place. But here in the Wilds, it means little."

The noblewoman knitted her thin brows. "Just identify yourself."

"My name is Morrigan."

"Morrigan?"

The Warden spoke, and all turned toward him in surprise.

"It's really you, isn't it?" He stepped forward. There was a grin spreading over his face. "I can't believe it's really you!"

"You know this woman?" the noblewoman cut in, looking back and forth between the two of them repeatedly. Her face was a mask of doubt.

"I… do not _believe_ so…" Morrigan tilted her head, squinting at the young man's features.

His face fell somewhat. "Of course. You probably don't remember me. It's been so many years…"

The young man shook his head, then grinned again. "But I remember you. I'm Alistair."

Morrigan drew a sharp breath.

* * *

For a fleeting moment it was silent. Alistair and Morrigan stood, eyes locked. A chill wind blew through the tall marsh grass.

When he had first arrived at Ostagar, he had thought of Morrigan. How could he not? She was synonymous with the Wilds. Every time a bird flew overhead, he had looked to the sky, nursing the distant memory of the young shapechanger. It was a fleeting distraction, quickly forgotten in the bustle as the Wardens and the king's men prepared for battle.

When Morrigan first revealed herself, he hadn't known what to make of her. After they'd encountered that wounded soldier crawling through the mud, he hadn't expected to run into another living person. He'd been startled, defensive… and then he took a closer look. _A raven-haired woman of the Wilds, who carries the staff of a mage, who speaks with an odd, familiar cadence..._

_Maker,_ Alistair thought. _But she has grown._

The years had blurred the picture, but he still held it in his mind. The Morrigan he remembered was a scrawny, owlish thing, swimming in grey rags, with twigs and feathers in her hair. What a strange and striking woman stood before him now. Her yellow eyes glowed with a fierce intelligence; her jewels and her draping garments hung over an expanse of creamy skin. It was impossible to look away.

"Ah, yes," she said. Her face was neutral, careful. "Alistair. I do remember."

Daveth and Jory exchanged a baffled look.

"What a lovely reunion," Emera said. She tapped her armored fingers against the hilt of her sword. "Just how do you know this Chasind wench?"

"I would mind my tongue, were I you," Morrigan said smoothly. "You are in my territory."

Alistair turned toward Emera. "We met when we were children. Not for very long, that is, but long enough to remember. It was the first time I ever met a free mage, an… apostate."

When he uttered the word, his three companions all took a step back.

"She's a witch of the Wilds, isn't she?" Daveth sniffed. His eyes were darting around, looking for an escape route. "She'll turn us into toads!"

"Witch of the Wilds. Such idle fancies, those legends." Morrigan's lips made a thin line. "Have you no minds of your own?"

"Never mind what you are. What is it you want?" Emera asked icily.

Morrigan turned her eyes upon Alistair again, and he felt a rush of blood at the back of his neck. She walked slowly in an arc around the party, appraising. "I see you have joined the Grey Wardens."

"Just so," he murmured.

"We are _all_ Grey Warden recruits," Emera cut in. "We are here for—"

"For the documents that once lay within that chest?" Morrigan nodded her head toward its remains. "Yes, I thought as much."

"Once?" Alistair glanced over his shoulder at the broken chest, then at Morrigan. "You mean… they're not here anymore?"

"And _you_ know where they are, I take it," Emera said.

Morrigan smiled. "Indeed."

"Well, we aren't here to bargain." Emera took a step forward. "Tell us where they are."

"You have taken up with such impolite people." Morrigan threw an aside glance at Emera, but her attention returned to Alistair. "But… I shall tell you all the same. They are with my mother."

Another spark, somewhere deep in Alistair's memory. _Morrigan's mother…_ she'd said that they were both mages, that she had taught Morrigan herself. The years had blurred her words; he remembered a sense of danger, a prickle of unease in his belly.

Emera sniffed. "Where is she?"

"In her cottage. 'Tis not far from here. If you wish your documents returned, I can take you to her." Morrigan narrowed her eyes at Emera, leaning on her staff.

"And walk right into whatever ambush you're planning? No, I don't think so."

"Hang on," Alistair said, and both women turned toward him. "I, uh… I think it's worth taking a look. We need those treaties, Duncan said so. And if Morrigan's willing to help, well…"

"Help us into a pot, maybe," Daveth muttered.

Jory shrugged. "I-I suppose we have no choice."

"You are the leader here, no? You should heed the words of your companions," Morrigan said, raising an eyebrow at Emera. "I cannot help you otherwise."

Frowning, she slowly loosened her grip on her sword.

"Fine. Take us there."

* * *

They trailed through the marsh in a line, heavy boots squelching in the muck with every step. Even as the chill in the air grew sharper, the setting sun glinted off Emera's armor. It nearly blinded Alistair when he looked at it straight.

Daveth and Jory were marching along behind him. Their commentary had dropped off, but Alistair could still feel the apprehension radiating off them. Not just about this unexpected detour through the Wilds, but about the Joining that lay ahead. In that, he shared their unease. They still didn't know what it entailed, or what it might cost. None of the three recruits might survive the day.

The odds were that at least one would live, he knew. Maybe they all would. And maybe they'd die in the battle tonight.

He looked up at Emera, stalking along between Morrigan and the rest of the party. Alistair couldn't see her face, but her disdain for everything around her was obvious. The cold, wet smell of the Wilds, the reeds that brushed at their sides as they walked; he could feel the way it grated on her, almost as surely as he felt the darkspawn taint.

When Duncan mentioned his promising new recruit, Alistair hadn't expected a woman, much less a noblewoman. It wasn't completely unheard of, but it ran contrary to the Wardens' usual lot. They tended toward the desperate, criminals, unwanted bastards. Those who came from the upper crust were more rare than ever. Volunteers who understood the threat of the Blight, or those whose fortunes had fallen, left without a choice…

He could only guess what had brought this Cousland woman here. She didn't complain, but she didn't seem to have come by choice. Duncan had spoken of her potential, not her reasons for joining.

Alistair shook his head. His eyes fell again on Morrigan, several yards ahead of Emera, stepping through the twisted marsh path with ease. Still at home in the Wilds, in her element. He cracked a smile. _Wow._

Quickening his pace, he found himself beside Emera, who gave him a sidelong glance. Her face was the mask of skepticism he'd expected.

"I thought you said you were a templar," she said.

"Um, yes, that's because I was one." Alistair frowned. "Why?"

"This is an apostate." Emera held out her hand, gesturing sharply ahead at Morrigan. "You, of all people, should know not to trust her."

Alistair's lower lip twitched. "Well, I'm not a templar anymore. I'm a Grey Warden. If she has the Warden treaties, then we need her help, don't we?"

"But you're not in it just for the treaties." A hint of a smirk ghosted along her lips. "You know her."

"Uh… I wouldn't call it that. I met her before, _many_ years ago."

They walked in silence a moment before Emera spoke again. "How is it that _you_ met a witch of the Wilds?"

"Kind of a long story, that." Alistair laughed nervously. "Maybe I'll tell you some other time, yeah? After your Joining." It felt wrong to get into it now, with all the potential death looming just ahead. And with Morrigan within earshot.

_Right,_ he thought, watching the apostate pick her way through a bed of thorns. _Who knows how long I'll be with these recruits. This is my only chance to talk to her._

He jogged ahead, plates ringing together on his heavy armor, and caught up with Morrigan.

"We are almost upon my mother's hut," she said. Her voice was calm; her eyes did not divert from the path ahead. It was lined with tall, thin torches now, and to their right lay a shallow bog. The smell of darkspawn had given way to that of rotting plant matter.

Alistair remembered: _her mother was an apostate, too, and… not exactly a kind and loving parent. Young Morrigan, eyes wild with fear and pain, clutching a broken mirror._ The years made memories vague and murky, but that image remained clear.

"So I'll finally get to meet her, then. I can't tell you how excited I am," he joked.

Morrigan shot him a questioning look. Her lips twisted, like she was about to say something, but thought better of it.

"Isn't it crazy?" Alistair continued. "All this time, and we end up in the same place again. You'll have to fill me in on everything I've missed," he said playfully.

"There is little to speak of in that regard." She drove her staff into the ground stiffly as she walked.

"It's been, what… ten, twelve years? You must have gotten up to something in all that time." He stared at her profile, her determined brow and pursed lips, until he stumbled over a tree root.

While he righted himself, he heard her huff a short breath. Something that might have been a laugh.

"I was an apostate," Morrigan said, with a certain wry edge upon the word, "and an apostate I remain. Did you expect I would flee from the Wilds to live among the common folk?"

"Well, no, not exactly…" Alistair raised his eyebrows. "I don't know what I expected. I didn't think I'd see you again."

"Yet here we are." She tilted her chin, and Alistair's eyes followed her gesture. Up ahead, in the middle of the bog, a pointed shack poked up against a crumbling stone tower. Its faded brown planks could blend right in with the horizon, were one not looking for it.

Alistair's heartbeat quickened just a little. He could feel the magic here. And, he thought, the danger.

He paused, and Morrigan kept moving forward. As she stalked on toward the hut, her shoulder blades jutted so sharply from her back, like spines on a dragon.

* * *

When they arrived, the door was ajar. A greyed old woman leaned against the doorframe with one wrinkled, bony hand in another. _Morrigan's mother._

She looked unassuming; hardly the fearsome witch Alistair had imagined. Her clothes were that of a commoner: a threadbare dress with an apron, worn leather boots. Her amber eyes followed the group's approach.

For a moment, they met with Alistair's. A jolt of ice ran down his spine. Something about that gaze pierced to his core.

"Greetings, Mother," Morrigan called. "I bring before you four Grey Wardens who—"

"I see them, girl." The old woman cut her off. She leaned forward, and the wind ruffled her dirt-grey hair. "Hmm… now _this_ is an interesting group. Most unexpected."

"Don't tell me you were _expecting_ us." The words fell out of Alistair's mouth unbidden, as they so often did. Maybe it was the nerves. He bounced on his heels, trying to shake them away.

The old woman grinned, thin lips pulling back to show yellowed teeth. "Ha! Then I shall not tell you. You, lad. Yours is a face I did not think to see."

She turned her attention upon Emera, leaving Alistair to puzzle out her meaning. "And you… it appears you lead these trembling boys. Is that so?"

"Yes." Emera stood stock-still, lower lip curled.

_I'm not trembling,_ Alistair thought peevishly, even as the fear prickled at his neck. He glanced over his shoulder at Daveth and Jory. The two men were sharing a look of trepidation. Daveth murmured something under his breath about _crazy swamp witches._ Morrigan's mother turned her yellow eyes upon him; her lips twitched into a wry smile, and he stiffened.

While Emera negotiated with the old woman, Alistair looked at Morrigan. She leaned beside the door to the shack with her arms crossed. Her gaze flicked between her mother and the Warden recruits; impatient, rebellious. Alistair willed her to meet his eyes.

When she finally did, it was only for an instant. Morrigan looked away as quickly as though she had touched a flame.

Alistair frowned. Had he said something to offend her already? He didn't think he had. Maybe Emera's icy demeanor had put her off the whole group. Alistair wanted to object, but it wasn't as though Emera was wrong. They were apostates. There was no reason to trust them.

And yet... they had done nothing but help. Just now, the old woman emerged from the hut, her wrinkled hands carefully holding a small bundle of scrolls. The aged parchment looked like it might crumble at the slightest breeze.

"Your treaties," she declared, holding them out before Emera. "Count yourselves lucky, Grey Wardens. Had I not protected these, they would have been lost many years ago. To decay, if not to thievery."

"You protected them?" Alistair blurted, taking a small step forward.

With light fingers, Emera snatched up the scrolls and turned them over, inspecting the seals. The wax was thick, inlaid with delicate veins of silver and gold. They were unbroken.

"...Thank you," Emera said, wrinkling her nose.

The old witch cackled. "There is no need for grand displays of gratitude. Go, run to your leaders and bring them those treaties. The need will come sooner than they know."

Her words sent a chill through the group. Or maybe that was Alistair's imagination, but he felt it.

Emera voiced what he was thinking. "And just how would _you_ know that?" she asked, eyes narrowed.

"The Blight is coming." The old woman's voice went dark, sinister. "These darkspawn are no stragglers. They're swarming like flies to a corpse. Any fool could see that… even an old hag like myself!" She threw back her head and fell into a fit of laughter.

Alistair flinched, and he felt Daveth and Jory do the same beside him.

Morrigan rolled her eyes. "Will that be all, then?" She pushed herself off the hut and strode toward the group, stopping just behind her mother's shoulder.

"Yes, it will." Emera took a step back, already itching to leave.

"Not so fast." The old woman turned her head toward Morrigan. "You wouldn't want to leave these poor people stranded in the Wilds, now, would you?"

Morrigan's jaw tightened, mirroring Emera's discomfort.

"Very well."

* * *

They set off through the swamp once more. As he picked his way over the slippery rocks and fetid puddles, Alistair's thoughts ran in circles. He nearly tripped once or twice, drawing a questioning look from their redheaded leader.

He wanted to approach Morrigan again, to get to know her just a little. His chance was slipping away with every step toward Ostagar. But what would he say? She didn't seem eager to chat, not one bit. He couldn't help feeling stung.

He'd thought about the young witch many times, growing up. How could he not? Alistair never knew anyone else who had met an apostate, until he'd begun training with the templars. And they only knew the ones they'd hunted down. All maleficars and blood mages, apparently. Of his belief that they couldn't _all_ be so bad, he'd had to remain tight-lipped.

Alistair had always wondered, somewhere in the back of his mind, whether Morrigan was safe. For all these years, could she and her mother really survive in the Wilds, outside the Chantry's reach? He wanted to think she was still out there, dancing through the trees and casting spells, taunting the templars of Lothering. But of course, he would never know.

Or so he'd thought.

Seeing her now, proud and powerful and fully grown… it was still a wonder, even in spite of her cold demeanor. There must be _something_ he could say to get through to her. Alistair hastened to catch up with her once more, panting slightly from the exertion. As the sun set, his armor pressed ever heavier on his shoulders.

Morrigan glanced aside at him. Maybe it was his imagination, but she looked somewhat amused. "You are very persistent."

Alistair beamed. "Why shouldn't I be?"

"Hmm." There it was— a definite wisp of a smile upon her lips, even as she focused squarely on the path ahead. "I imagine you have somewhat changed in all your years? The Grey Wardens are not the illustrious order they once were. Yet somehow, they found _you._"

"Uhh…" Alistair blinked. "I don't really think I've changed all _that_ much. I've only been a Warden for a year now. Not even. I've been—" _a templar—_ "some other things, too." He swallowed.

"None of which broke you of your curiosity, it seems." Another guarded smile. "But you are a _Warden_ now. Surely, your duty is to—"

"Wait." He held out a hand in front of her, stopping them both short. Something was tingling at the edges of his perception, itching in his blood. The shrill, familiar note without a sound. _Darkspawn._

Alistair drew his sword, and he heard the _shing_ of the others behind him doing the same. By now, they'd learned the signs of his darkspawn sense, and could react without him having to yell it out. With all the beasts they'd encountered just today, they'd had plenty of practice.

Beside him, Morrigan planted her staff in the ground and muttered under her breath. Magic surged up through the dark, gnarled branch and swelled in its head. Alistair could feel that, too, thrumming through his blood alongside the darkspawn taint.

As soon as the first genlock reared its ugly head, Morrigan swung her staff forward. In a powerful, whooshing arc, it released a massive fireball toward the beast. The heat prickled at the hairs on Alistair's face.

_Boom._ The genlock was knocked to the ground, writhing and shrieking as its flesh sizzled away. Two others behind were caught in the blast, too, and they stumbled and dropped their filthy, rusted swords.

A laugh bubbled up from Alistair's chest. _"Wow."_ He shook his head, grinning, before charging ahead to face the enemy.

The beasts were quickly dispatched; they were a small group, and with Morrigan flinging spells, they hardly stood a chance. Emera and Jory jumped into the fray alongside Alistair, while Daveth stood back and fired a few arrows. He had the advantage of standing out of reach; not only from the darkspawn, but from Morrigan's magic.

It soon became clear that the mage lacked experience fighting with others at her side. One of her frost spells sprayed against the back of Alistair's armor as it went, nearly freezing him in place. He freed himself just in time to avoid a darkspawn dagger to the throat.

When the last of the foul creatures lay dead, the whole party stood silent, catching their breath. Daveth rooted among the corpses for anything of value, though there was little to be had.

"You fight well," Jory volunteered to Morrigan.

Alistair twisted in place, stretching his arms and legs. "Yeah, just… a little less on the freezing me, next time, maybe. If there is a next time."

"Let us hope not. We near your destination." Brushing a rogue lock of raven hair from her face, as though it made her any less disheveled, Morrigan stalked forward down the path.

* * *

All too soon, they came upon familiar territory. They had walked through this marsh before, and the ruined tower where they'd found the empty cache loomed overhead.

"I believe you know the way from here?" Morrigan stopped and leaned upon her staff, regarding the four Wardens coolly.

"Yes, thank you." Emera returned her gaze with as much warmth. "Such a pleasure it's been."

_How familiar, the way nobles talk,_ Alistair thought. _Barely hiding that they can't stand one another. Nope, don't miss that._

"Thank you, Morrigan," he said warmly, and she turned toward him with eyebrows raised. "It was good to see you again."

Morrigan hesitated. "I… yes, 'twas good indeed," she attempted. It didn't sound particularly sincere, but it was something. "Go safely, Grey Wardens."

She turned on her heel and strode off into the marsh.

"That was very strange," Jory commented uselessly.

"I agree," Emera said. For a moment she stood and watched, eyes narrowed, as Morrigan stalked away. She turned, her armored shoulders pointing like daggers toward Ostagar. "Let's get going."

Daveth and Jory shuffled along behind her. Alistair wanted to move, knew he would, but his feet felt rooted in the earth. He watched Morrigan's figure growing smaller, ever smaller, not once looking back…

But she did stop, just for a second or two. She froze mid-step, gripping her staff like a walking-stick, a cold breeze ruffling her dark hair.

Morrigan shook her head, then resumed walking at a quicker pace. Alistair watched her until she was out of sight. There was no movement, no sound but the wind in the reeds.

He turned and jogged after the new recruits. His mind was pulled taut between two dark thoughts: apprehension of what was to come, and regret for what had been left unfinished.


	2. Chapter 2

At the party's approach, the tall wooden gate creaked slowly open. The calm of the Wilds gave way to the bustle of all the disparate camps layered over one another: the king's army and Teyrn Loghain's, the Wardens, the Circle mages and the templars. All scurried this way and that in the fading light, preparing for the coming battle.

The wind was cold, but it carried the hot scent of smoke. Alistair's eyes went immediately to the blazing fire in the center of the commotion, where a calm, familiar figure stood watch.

"We should hurry and get back to Duncan," he said. Anxiety prickled at his neck.

"Just a moment." Emera waved a silvery-armored hand, staring straight ahead. "I have some business to take care of."

The business, it turned out, was a delivery to the mabari trainer. The smell of the kennel, the periodic barking of the dogs... _ah, just like home._ In a strange way, it put Alistair at ease.

The kennel master looked agitated, though. He paced back and forth in front of the enclosure. A deep frown creased his dark, bearded mouth. But when he looked up and saw the Wardens approaching, a glimmer of hope ran across his face.

"You were after this?" Emera reached into the pack on her hip. Between two fingers, she held the prize out before the man: a strange blossom. Its broad, white petals were stained with red at the center; slightly bruised from wear, but it still held its shape. Pretty, in a weird, wild sort of way.

The kennel master was delighted with the offering. Daveth was the one who had suggested they stop and collect the flower in the first place. Emera graciously allowed the thief to claim the reward for himself. _Twenty silver. Surely it's a pittance to her, anyway._

It was a relief to get back to Duncan. The taint in Alistair's blood could sense that in the older Warden. Over the past year, he'd come to take comfort in the feeling. In the presence of other Wardens, there was a familiar thrum that sat alongside his heartbeat, and he felt lonely without it.

Emera's mabari sat obediently by Duncan's side. As the party drew close, however, the hound leapt up and gave a short bark, her behind wiggling furiously.

"Easy, Duchess." Emera gave her a brisk pat between the ears. The mabari restrained herself with heroic effort.

Duncan was warming his hands by the fire. "You've returned," he said, turning to face the group. "I trust you found what you were looking for?"

"The blood and the treaties, yes." Emera slapped a hand on her pack, frowning. "I trust we're done running errands?"

Despite her pointed tone, Duncan chuckled. _Amazing,_ Alistair thought, _how he keeps a level head with all this… potential death up ahead. I wouldn't be laughing._

"Yes, that will be all for now. Your Joining awaits; with the darkspawn blood you collected, the Circle mages can complete their preparations."

The recruits' discomfort was palpable.

"...There's something else you should know." Emera straightened her shoulders. "We ran into some apostates in the Wilds. A woman and her mother."

"They _helped_ us." Alistair raised his eyebrows at Emera. "Morrigan's mother said she protected the treaties for us."

"Yes, it was all very convenient. I'm sure the templars will love the story." A wry smile flickered across her lips, but she didn't bother to turn and meet his gaze.

Alistair's mouth hung open. "You really want to involve the templars?"

"Are you daft?" Emera cast an aside glance at him. "They're apostates."

"Well, yeah, but…" Alistair felt his face getting hotter, and he was distantly aware that it wasn't just from the fire. His voice came out louder than he meant it to. "I can't believe you want to sell them out like that. After all they've done for us?"

"It doesn't matter what they've done, Alistair. The law is the law." She spoke with the tense authority of a Chantry mother.

And Alistair _knew_ she was right; she was only echoing what he'd heard from a thousand people and repeated a thousand times. His templar trainers had done their damnedest to impress it upon him. But it didn't make him want to run screaming into the woods any less. In fact, that probably made it worse.

Mercifully, Duncan interjected: "The law of the Chantry is not the Wardens' concern. Right now, our focus is the battle ahead." He gave that fatherly, disappointed look to both of them, but Alistair couldn't help but feel somewhat satisfied. _Yeah, Emera, it's not our concern, so why don't you just… stuff it back into that big red head of yours._ Ah, it was a miracle that he kept his mouth shut sometimes.

"Then let's get on with the ritual," Emera grumbled.

The petty thoughts fizzled out. _Right. The ritual. Time to see who gets to be a Warden, and who… doesn't._

* * *

He paced in circles, rehearsing the words. Alistair had memorized them long ago now, but still… this was going to be the most important moment of someone's life, and the final moment of someone else's. Maybe they'd all die. Or none would, if they were supernaturally lucky. He wasn't counting on it.

He circled past Duncan again, and a firm hand stopped him by the shoulder. "It's time. You'll do well."

A feeling like warm water trickled through his chest. Duncan's simple reassurances always made him feel better, but it didn't take the fear out of what was coming.

The recruits were bickering in their little moonlit circle. Alistair couldn't hear their words from where he stood, but he could see it in the way they moved their heads and crossed their arms. Time to break up the fun.

He squared his shoulders and descended the stone steps.

* * *

_Join us, brothers and sisters._

Tainted blood and lyrium and Maker knows what else, swirling around the bottom of the silver chalice. It had disgusted him once. It still wasn't something he'd ever want to drink again, but there was a comfort now, knowing that it flowed within his veins.

_Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant._

Duncan held the chalice aloft. He called the recruits forward one by one; his voice was grim, but did not tremble. Nor did Alistair's; he looked down at the ground, concentrating on the words.

_Join us as we carry the duty that can not be forsworn._

Daveth was the first. He drank bravely; he choked; he died. It was gut-wrenching to watch, to hear him gasping out his last breath. But Alistair didn't look away. The poor man deserved that much.

_And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten._

Jory's death came at the end of Duncan's sword. This one was worse, even for the relative quickness of it. Duncan moved without hesitation, as always, but Alistair knew him well enough to see his pain. The sword sank into Jory's belly, and Alistair felt it in his.

_And that one day we shall join you._

The noblewoman lived.

* * *

The sun had long set by the time she came to. Her eyes blinked open, glanced between the two faces looming over her, then narrowed in discomfort.

With a drawn-out groan, Emera rubbed at the back of her skull. "Maker…"

Besides the trauma of the Joining, she'd been lying on the bare stone without so much as a pillow for her head. Feeling bad, Alistair had tried to at least position her body more comfortably after she crumpled to the ground. He wasn't expecting any kind of thanks.

"It is done," Duncan said. "How are you feeling?"

She fixed him with an incredulous stare. It was a fair response. Despite his heavy heart, Alistair couldn't suppress a small chuckle.

Emera turned the stare on him. "That was worse than I could have imagined. I feel disgusting."

"Well, you'd better get used to it," Alistair suggested, as kindly as he could muster. He held out a hand to help her up. "The pain goes away, but the taint isn't going anywhere."

As she rose to her feet, she looked like she was about to vomit. Alistair took a step back just in case.

Emera groaned again, clutching at the side of her head. "Ser Jory…"

"The man left me no choice," Duncan said. "He drew his blade."

Alistair felt another twinge of pain in his stomach. The smell of blood was still in the air.

She pursed her lips. "I understand. Pity the coward."

_Well._

"It is no small sacrifice we ask of our recruits," Duncan said. "There is no shame in feeling fear, but you must not let it prevent you from your duty."

Alistair raised his left hand, revealing the pendant. It swung gently from the chain between his fingers.

"This is for you. It's made with some of the blood from the Joining." He held it out to Emera, who accepted it without a word. "Warden tradition. To remember those we've lost, and to honor their sacrifice." _And yours._

"I'll let you get your bearings. We meet with the king shortly." Duncan excused himself with a solemn nod, leaving Alistair and Emera alone.

Still, she said nothing, gazing at the pendant that hung from her fingers. It glowed a dull grey in the moonlight.

_She survived. It wasn't all for nothing._ Alistair exhaled. They might not have gotten off on the right foot, but… he was relieved to have a new sister-in-arms and not another corpse to bury.

"Congratulations," he said quietly. "You're a real Warden now."

No response.

"I'm glad you're still with us," he pressed on. "When I had my Joining, there was only one, but…" His throat grew tight. "...it wasn't any easier, this time. Sorry you had to see all that on your first day."

At that, she finally turned to face him.

"Duncan never told you why he brought me here, did he?"

"Uhhh… no." Alistair frowned. "Figured we'd get to all that later, the getting-to-know-each-other thing, once the big battle's behind us… but, well, I gathered you weren't a volunteer. Not many are, these days."

She huffed, something like a laugh without the slightest humor, and reached around her neck to clasp the pendant on. The little pewter disc and its tainted blood slipped beneath her breastplate.

"Let's not keep the king waiting," Emera murmured, fixing her hair as she went.

* * *

By the time they caught up with the king, she'd slipped on that even-keeled smile again, shoulders set and commanding. Alistair had to jog to keep up. When they were on the move, at least, he wasn't lost in his own thoughts.

Being around Cailan was… strange. With everyone else around, Alistair could only look him in the eyes for a moment. As though they'd do something or say something and someone would notice, it'd be just a little too familiar, the cut of his jawline or the sound of his laugh…

But, as usual, all eyes were on Cailan alone. Him, and Teyrn Loghain pacing around behind him, looking ready to put his fist through the table. Unruffled, Cailan greeted the Wardens with typical enthusiasm.

"Lady Cousland! You have my congratulations," he said, smile gleaming. "How proud you must be to have joined the legendary Grey Wardens."

Emera bowed. "It's an honor."

Her words didn't sound particularly sincere, but… _who's to say, really. I haven't been sure about a thing all day._ While the king and the teyrn debated strategy, Alistair's eyes wandered over the stone walls of the old temple, to the open sky.

They could all die tonight. They could die any day, but… this was different. This was the horde.

He thought of Morrigan again, and something twisted in his stomach. She was powerful, as was her mother, no doubt. But whatever strange magic held the darkspawn back from their hut… would it be enough?

Alistair shook the thoughts from his head, and there stood Cailan and Loghain again, having reached some sort of agreement.

_"The Grey Wardens will light the beacon."_

* * *

No one paid him any mind, of course. It was only when they'd regrouped by the fire, him and Duncan and Emera, that he aired his concerns.

"We're not going to fight in the battle?" he asked, disbelieving. "We're Grey Wardens. Shouldn't we be, y'know, _killing darkspawn?"_

"I think it's a fine plan." Emera smiled primly. "No need to get our hands dirty."

"Even so, you should be on your guard." Duncan fixed them both with his admonishing frown. "All may not go as planned. You'll need to keep your wits about you, and _move swiftly."_

"And then… maybe we can join the battle? With the grown-ups?" Alistair asked.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Emera said.

"It's possible," answered Duncan. "But for now, your priority is to light the beacon."

"Then let's get this done with." Emera glanced at her mabari, who stood up with a bark.

The final goodbyes were said, and the Wardens parted from Duncan. Alistair couldn't help but look back. Over his shoulder, Duncan was a fading silhouette against the fire, walking off to join the king's army.

* * *

As it turned out, there was no shortage of darkspawn to kill. Even as they crossed the bridge, weaving through siege equipment and burning shrapnel, they were dodging darkspawn arrows.

The path to the tower was choked with the things. He and Emera stayed close, back-to-back at times, cleaving through the twisted beasts while the mabari chased down the stragglers. The taint in the new Warden's blood had only just taken hold, but its effects were beginning; she reacted more quickly, subconsciously sensing the positions of the darkspawn when they were close enough. Alistair could sense her movements now, too. Fighting alongside another Warden… it bore a rush like nothing else.

One darkspawn fell, then another, then another, and already they'd reached the tower. And so, too, had a piece of the horde. For all Alistair's earlier bluster about Circle mages, it was a blessing to stumble upon one as they entered the tower; the darkspawn had spellcasters, too. He nearly had his face melted off by a well-timed fireball.

When he had a chance, Alistair spoke. "Something's gone wrong, hasn't it? These darkspawn weren't supposed to be here. Not this many."

Emera leaned against a stone archway, her back to Alistair. She shook droplets of black blood from her sword. "Let's just keep moving."

"Right behind you." They ascended once more.

* * *

They were already bruised and battered by the time they reached the top. And, of course, that's where the ogre was waiting. _It just couldn't be that easy, could it?_

The hulking thing filled up his vision, spraying its foul spittle over the party. Alistair's shield caught the worst of it. And then, before they had a moment to breathe, the ogre charged. They scattered left and right.

The poor mage drew the beast's ire with a well-timed bolt, and was crushed within its massive fist. Alistair's eyes met Emera's, and she nodded. Both raised their shields and charged.

The force of the impact knocked the breath from his lungs, but it was enough to disorient the ogre. The mage dropped to the ground. _Still alive, thank the Maker… but barely._ Alistair helped the man to his feet.

They were running out of time. They had to light the signal fire. Emera and her dog still circled the beast, slashing at its legs and scarcely dodging its swings. They were all losing strength.

With the last he could muster, Alistair sprinted at the ogre's back and leapt. His sword found the nape of its neck, and he drove it in. Foul-smelling blood spurted over him.

As the ogre collapsed, both hit the ground with a _thud._ And then… silence. The only sound was his own breathing, his heart pounding in his ears.

Alistair glanced to his right. The mage was slumped against a wall, surveying his wounds. His left arm looked broken. Nothing magic couldn't heal, but if he'd caught the darkspawn taint…

And then, to the left. Emera was a step ahead, already marching toward the fire. Alistair shoved himself off the beast's corpse, jogging to catch up.

But he'd only made it halfway when the stone trembled beneath his feet. He looked back, and a fresh wave of darkspawn had already mounted the staircase. An arrow whistled past his ear, then another.

He dove to the ground, and when he landed, he found that he couldn't move another inch. There was no stopping them. It was over.

The last thing he saw was the bright plume of the signal fire, blazing up to the night sky.

* * *

The dreams were more real than they'd ever been.

The Archdemon's deafening roar, like the screech of torn steel. The march of the darkspawn. The song called him ever closer, toward the dragon's maw, where the sky was swallowed up by the endless void. The sound made him sick, and yet… he couldn't let it fade.

_Maker, why does it hurt so much?_ The horror was nothing new, but the pain… that was new. His whole body was bruises and broken bones, pressed with every step. The taint burned through his veins like it had in the beginning.

In the darkness, a face loomed above, worried. Concentrated. It was a familiar face. Maybe. Or was it just one more trick?

Wishful thinking, probably.

* * *

He woke, but he couldn't open his eyes. Not yet.

It was warm. He was warm. Insufferably hot, in fact. He was buried beneath a pile of furs and roughspun blankets that came up to his chin. Alistair wriggled free with a grunt of relief.

He was down to his smallclothes, and just about to peel those off, too. The air against his skin was cool and damp. Smelled mossy, like a bog. But there was something human in it too: warm stew, herbs, sweat and lyrium…

Startled, his eyes blinked open. He was somewhere he'd never been. _How in Andraste's name…_

It was a small hut, strewn with the most alarming clutter: books, strange jars, skulls of all sizes. Vials of unknown contents. A blackened pot on a blackened fireplace. Steam rose from its mouth.

He peeked around the partition. There was a bed not far from his spot on the floor, and he spotted a curly mop of red tucked against the pillow. Emera. Her back rose and fell slightly beneath the bedcovers. _She's alive._

_I'm alive._

How could it be? Alistair struggled to call up the details, and it only stirred a headache.

_Never mind, then._ He had to figure out where they were and what had happened. He pushed himself to his feet, wincing; he was sore all over. As he scratched at an itch beneath his smalls, he wondered where his clothes and armor had gone off to. Not stolen, he hoped.

"Looking for something, lad?"

"Augh!" Alistair yelped, jumping back. He hastened to shield his privates.

Leaning against the doorframe, there stood Morrigan's mother.

She disregarded his outburst. "Good to see you finally wake," she said. "Your companion hasn't been so lucky. She had the worst of the injuries, but she'll return to the waking world soon enough." The old witch smiled slightly.

Alistair gaped. "You…"

"Don't trouble yourself." She turned toward the door. "I'll have Morrigan fix you something. I'm sure you'll have much to discuss. You'll find your effects in the chest there," she added, with a pointed look at his nakedness.

She stepped outside. Alistair looked to the chest at his feet. Holding his breath, he peered inside.

There was his armor, his Warden blues and his sword and shield, alongside Emera's shiny kit. They were stacked neatly at the bottom, and atop rested his leggings and undershirt, folded square. The fabric was stained through with huge patches of rusty brown. It had been washed, or at least rinsed, but there was no getting those out.

Alistair's heart pounded as he pulled the bloodstained clothes on. He hurried toward the door, still tugging at his shirtsleeve.

Morrigan stood with her back to him, outlined against the horizon of the Wilds. She looked over the swamp with arms folded. Tense.

"Morrigan," he said, full of wonder. He saw her face in profile: the sharp line of her nose, the uneasy frown across her lips.

That was it. The face he'd seen in the dark.

"You saved us, didn't you?" Alistair took a step forward, then another. "Maker, there were so many darkspawn… I can't remember how it happened."

"No, 'twas not I who saved you. 'Twas my mother." Morrigan turned to face him fully now, still grim. "She brought you back here and healed your wounds. I merely had the joy of changing your poultices."

"I… well, thank you," Alistair said. "But… how? I mean… how did she find _us?"_

"Mother has her ways." Morrigan shrugged. "Far be it from me to question. Perhaps it was luck that you found yourselves within her reach, or perhaps she has some use in mind for you and your fellow Warden."

"Oh." _Sounds… creepy._ "What about the other Wardens, then?"

Morrigan looked away for a moment, then met his gaze. "Unfortunately, there are no other Wardens. All perished in the fighting."

But that didn't make any sense. He repeated the words in his mind. Once, twice.

"What?" His voice trembled. "You can't mean… no, that can't be right. It can't be. What about the king's army? The— the teyrn's?"

"All dead. Including the king himself. 'Twould seem your signal went unanswered. A betrayal." A cold breeze blew through, lifting the wisps of her raven hair; it chilled Alistair to the bone.

_Duncan. Cailan. The Wardens… everyone… all gone._ He tried to speak, but all that came up was a dry heave. _No… this isn't real, this _can't_ be real…_

"I know little more than that. Perhaps you can ask Mother, when she returns." Morrigan circled around him, moving for the door. When she passed, Alistair reached out and grabbed her by the arm, just under her feathered pauldron.

"It can't be true. Tell me it's not true," he croaked. "Please."

Perturbed by his touch, Morrigan yanked her arm away. "You would prefer I lie? The horde approaches as we speak," she snapped. "There is little time to reckon with the truth."

Huffing, she stalked through the door.

Alistair was alone again. He stared off into the rolling hills that cut through the swamp, the crumbling ruins that pierced the yellow sky. In all of Thedas, he had nowhere, nothing, no one to return to.


End file.
